Everyone and their Stereotype
by Loopy Leefy
Summary: In which anything with a name embodies its (maybe exaggerated) stereotype. Harry is angsty, Umbridge is squeaky, and Luna is . . . crazy. A little warning: any mentioned pairings are canon. And don't trust— *Ahem* Spoilers!


Harry was staring angstily into his goblet of pumpkin juice. Goblet . . . like the Goblet of Fire. That Goblet led to so many things. Voldemort's return to life . . . Cedric's death . . . yes. It was all the Goblet's fault.

And what was worse, no one believed him! No one understood. Every night he woke up screaming from the most horrid nightmares, and the door! _The door!_ It haunted him even in his waking moments, like a giant Cruciatus curse just waiting to stri—

"Ron! Stop chewing with your mouth open!"

Harry looked up. On his left, Ron was stuffing his face with chicken and mashed potatoes, spewing the food all over the table. Across from him, Hermione was glaring at Ron from above her extremely thick, really old book written in ancient runes. She didn't seem to notice that there were bits of crumbling paper on her empty plate, and was shoving the little fragments into her mouth between breaks to reprimand Ron's table manners.

Ron ignored her, instead turning to face Harry. "H'rry, y' soud eat somsing."

"What?" Harry said gloomily.

Ron swallowed all the food in his mouth with one gulp. "I said, 'Harry, you should eat something.'"

"Oh." Harry looked down at his plate. There wasn't much on it; two treacle tarts and a pile of gravy-soaked mashed potatoes. Picking up his fork, he slowly ate away at the potatoes, revealing another treacle tart underneath.

"Why do you only have treacle tarts?" Hermione's voice asked sharply.

Harry's head turned to look at her annoyed face. "They taste good."

She huffed. "Oh, nevermind. I'm going to the library to see if there's a spell to instill table manners." Giving Ron one last disgusted look, she left the Great Hall.

Ron looked back at Harry, a mystified expression on his face. "What does 'instill' mean?"

Knowing how stupid Ron was most of the time, Harry decided to put it in simple words. "It's like making something happen."

"Oh. Alright, then." Ron nodded, turned back to his food, and started stuffing his face again.

Beginning to feel lonely, Harry surveyed the table.

Lavender and Parvati were giggling and pointing in seemingly random directions, both blushing in sync. Fred and George were throwing fireworks around the room and goading first years into being test subjects. Neville was repeatedly dropping his fork, and looked like he was attempting to actually remember something. A pompous-looking sixth year was trying to explain to an uncomfortable-looking fourth year that if they wanted to be a Beater on the Quidditch team, they had to swing the bat in a very specific manner; something he was demonstrating with a turkey drumstick. **(1)** All in all, it was a normal dinner at the Gryffindor table.

Sighing dramatically, Harry consumed his three treacle tarts and washed away their taste with his pumpkin juice, which had obtained a bug of some sort when he wasn't looking. That poor bug. If only Harry hadn't left his juice idle for so long, it wouldn't have drowned. It was all his fault. He should have—

This time, his self-blaming musings were interrupted by the fourth year shouting a curse as the pompous sixth year hit his face with the turkey leg. The curse bounced off several different cups, plates, and utensils, with practically the entire school watching it, and finally hit the Astronomy teacher, Aurora Sinistra, on her forehead. Her eyebrows exploded, leaving behind steaming white smoke that wouldn't dissipate.

Sneering exaggeratedly, Snape descended upon the Gryffindor table. "Potter," he said, still sneering. "One hundred points from Gryffindor for destroying Professor Sinistra's eyebrows. You are to have detention with me every Quidditch match and practice for the rest of your years at Hogwarts."

Harry's mouth dropped open, and the bug from his pumpkin juice fell out. "But I didn't do anything! It was that fourth year over there!" He pointed, but the fourth year had fled under the table and there were nothing but sixth years in his place.

"There is no fourth year there, Potter. Only an extremely foolish sixth year waving a drumstick." He paused, then turned to look at the sixth year. "Ninety-nine points from Gryffindor for being a dunderhead in public. You will have detention with me every time you enter the hospital wing."

The sixth year wasn't paying attention, and instead waved the drumstick so violently it flew across the room and straight into the elaborate hairdo of Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor.

"Another ninety-nine points from Gryffindor for attempting to start a food fight at Hogwarts."

The sixth year's attention seemed to be caught by that, and he glared at Snape, muttering something about 'totally being able to beat that stupid bat if they were on broomsticks.' Snape didn't notice, and made his way back to the staff table, still sneering.

After that, things resumed normally. The food disappeared, Hermione's leftover rune-covered, crumbling paper scraps along with it, and there was a sudden rush to get to the dorms. Even Ron seemed to have forgotten about food in favor of going to bed.

As Harry changed into his baggy pajamas, which were actually just Dudley's old hand-me-downs, he couldn't help but think of the nightmares to come. The haunting door would reemerge from the depths of its hiding place, wherever that was. He could only hope that there would be kittens in the hallway.

As he climbed into bed, he couldn't help but wish that Ron would stop snoring.

As he lay awake for the next four hours, trying to get to sleep, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift to the poor bug who died, all because of him.

And as he dreamed of kittens, snarling and scratching away Voldemort's skin to reveal Umbridge underneath, he couldn't help but think that it was all his fault Voldemort now had as much skin as he had hair. And that Voldemort didn't have a nose.

Because in the end, everything was his fault. Even the fact that Dumbledore had a weird sense of style.

Because the world revolved around him.

* * *

 **(1): This is Cormac McLaggen, in case no one guessed.**

 **I don't own Harry Potter. That's the only time I'm saying it.**

 **Come one, come all, and . . . leave a review stating your opinion! (If you like this, the amount of favorites, follows and reviews it receives will bring more fans! :3) The word count for the chapter will be stated, and will exclude all author's notes. I'll also name the date I published the chapter, starting on the next one. These are two things I often wonder about while reading a FanFiction. Also, feel free to point out any mistakes I may have missed; they could be little things like punctuation.**

 **Word Count: 1019**

 **\- Loopy Leefy**


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